


A Girl In The Valley

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Secret Garden - Norman/Simon
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Courtship, F/M, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: The courtship of Lily Craven, from first meeting to wedding night.





	A Girl In The Valley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notearchiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/gifts).



> Title taken from “A Girl In The Valley”, lyrics by Marsha Norman. Many, many thanks to my beta Zulu!

It was the hottest June day on record in Yorkshire when Archibald Craven began his trip home to Misselthwaite Manor from the city of York.

The journey to his home village was less than an hour by train, but three hours by horseback. Archibald, an habitually aloof young man afflicted by a prominent hunchback, preferred to travel by horse whenever possible, to avoid the constant staring of eyes and clucking of tongues at him. However, that particular afternoon, he made the mistake of setting out after his business in town had concluded. In his haste to leave, he started the journey at midday, when the temperature would only continue to climb through the afternoon, rather than waiting for the next morning when it would be cooler. 

The road home crossed the moors, with precious little shade for relief along the way. Just over halfway through the journey, when the temperature of the day had reached its peak, his poor mount began to slow, growing alarmingly lethargic with the heat. He himself grew more uncomfortable by the minute under the broiling sun. Hence, when he reached the fork in the road about an hour away from Misselthwaite, instead of taking his customary right-hand path home across the moors, he turned left to head down into the river valley. It would add another hour to his trip, but on this route there would at least be shade from the trees by the bank, and a creek for his horse from which to drink.

He descended down the winding road towards the creek. About halfway to the bottom of the valley, he found himself approaching a tidy cottage nestled on the side of the hill. A curlicue of smoke rose from its stone chimney. How odd, he thought; he had thought the cottage to be unoccupied. When he reached its entrance onto the road, guarded by a wrought-iron gate, he noticed a tidy English garden behind it.

From the corner of his eye, Archibald perceived a flash of movement behind the gate. He drew up the reins to stop his horse, and peered through the bars for a closer inspection.

A small figure, bent over a bed of late-blooming iris just inside the gate, rose from the ground, dusting its hands of soil. “Hello!” a sweet, feminine voice called out. “Such a lovely day, isn’t it?”

The figure approached the gate, pushing its bonnet off, and Archibald found himself looking down at a vivacious young woman with wisps of chestnut hair around her face. She held a trowel in one gloved hand and carried a basket on her other arm.

Archibald hesitated; he preferred not to address anyone, even if the other person engaged him first. However, his mare needed respite if he were to have any hope of arriving home in a timely manner.

“Lass, would’st thou ‘low me to rest here?” he finally replied. “I’ve already ridden from York today. My horse is tiring under this dreadful heat and requires water.”

A delighted smile lit up the girl’s face. “Why, yes of course, sir! We should be delighted if you would stay a while.”

Archibald dismounted, grateful that he had decided to take the path through the valley. “I offer my thanks,” he said.

“Please, take all the time you need,” she said. She then turned away. “Ben!” she called. “Oh, Ben!”

A stooped, grizzled man shuffled from behind a rose bush just starting to bud. “Yes, Miss Lily?”

Archibald took note. “Would you please take Mr. --” She trailed off, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Forgive me, sir, I never even asked your name,” she said to Archibald.

“Archibald Craven, at your service,” he said with a slight bow.

“Ben, would you please take Mr. Craven’s horse to shade and fetch it some water,” she said.

“As you wish, Miss Lily.”

Ben exited the gate and gathered the reins from Archibald. “Ah, but she’s a beauty,” Ben said approvingly, stroking his calloused palm down the horse’s withers.

“Aye, she is,” Archibald concurred, but his eye was on the creature currently holding the gate wide open for them to enter. Ben led the mare into the compound, with Archibald close behind.

Up close, Archibald took the opportunity to more closely examine this lovely slip of a woman who would, so easily and without question, offer her hospitality to a stranger passing by. He saw that she was about his age; she appeared younger only perhaps because she was clad in a faded blue gingham frock covered by a sturdy canvas work smock. A pale straw bonnet hung down her back; a matching blue ribbon to her dress secured the bonnet round her neck. Strands of chestnut hair framed her heart-shaped face, as he had observed earlier, and she had the most remarkable hazel eyes, which fairly sparkled with interest. Although, with her feet ensconced in thick-soled leather boots and her hands in cracked work gloves, he might have taken her for a servant, had Ben not referred to her as “Miss”. Her straight bearing and lack of servility suggested a lady’s refinement.

“Do you still have far to travel, Mr. Craven?” she inquired solicitously.

“I am headed to the village of Missel,” he said.

Lily nodded sagely. “Still yet two hours,” she said. She then brightened. “Come, share my tea, sir,” she beckoned.

Archibald froze, unaccustomed to such kindness. Lily cocked her head, clearly puzzled that he hadn’t joined her right away.

“It’s all right, Mr. Craven, I have more than plenty for both of us, and you look to be in need of refreshment as well,” she said. And, in a most forward gesture, she reached out and clasped his hand.

“Come with me.”

She led him to a small patch of the greenest grass he’d ever seen, in the middle of the garden beneath an ancient willow, whose branches brushed the ground like a curtain. Upon the grass sat a small wood table large enough for two, and two wicker chairs. On the table was spread a cheerful red-and-white checked cloth. Smaller white cloths were draped over the china and cutlery. Lily removed her gloves, her bonnet, and her smock, and set them in a neat folded pile beside one chair. She then wiped her hands on a pristine white cloth and busied herself with uncovering baskets of food and pouring tea, flitting about like a small gingham-clad bird.

“I do prefer taking my tea outdoors when I can,” she said as she worked, “for it always tastes so much better in the fresh air. Don’t you agree, Mr. Craven?”

“Yes, yes of course,” he replied somewhat off-handedly. Though he really did not know if this was true; this was the first time he had been invited to any sort of tea with a lady, indoors or out.

When she finished setting the table, she smiled at him. “Please do sit down, sir.”

Archibald at last remembered his manners. “After you, dear lady,” he said.

After the unusually brutal hot sun on the moor, the shade of the willow was more than welcome, and Archibald’s mood improved dramatically. As he sipped from a cup of tea and ice flavoured with lemon, Archibald surreptitiously studied the woman across from him. She was unlike any other he had encountered. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes shone with the joy of his company; too long had he been accustomed to polite disdain and mere tolerance of his presence.

A basket heaped with oatcakes sat beside a pitcher of fresh cream and a small jar of plum preserves. Lily filled a plate with oatcakes, poured cream over them and spooned a dollop of plums on each, and brought it to Ben tending the horse. She then returned to serve Archibald, chattering bright words about the unusually torpid weather all the while.

Archibald found himself thoroughly charmed by this forthright, earnest creature, who was so completely at home in this outdoor paradise that he too grew at ease. And Miss Lily was indeed right, he decided upon his first bite into the cream-and-plum soaked oatcake; he had never tasted anything finer in his life.

He would not remember what exactly they discussed during that first tea shared in the garden, but he would always recall that there had been no time prior in his life when he had smiled or laughed so freely. Indeed, he was reluctant to leave, so enchanted he was with her company, until the shadow of the willow began to lengthen, and he remembered he still had a long journey ahead of him to Misselthwaite Manor.

“If thou wouldst excuse me, I must take thy leave, dear lady,” he said.

She nodded and they both rose from the table. “Might I see you again any time soon, Mr. Craven?”

Right then he made a second decision. “I shall visit thee every day if thou wilt have me,” he said fervently, his speech dropping into the dialect of his childhood. “If thou art willing, two hours is but a blink of an eye.” As he spoke, he clasped both her hands in his, marvelling at their delicate strength.

“My dear Mr. Craven, you are welcome here any time you wish.”

Archibald went to his horse, which, under Ben’s careful ministrations, had regained her vigour and was once more ready to ferry her owner home. He mounted the mare, and Lily walked with them back to the gate.

“I bid thee adieu, my Fair Lily of the Valley,” Archibald said gallantly.

“I await your return, my brave knight,” she replied just as formally, curtsied, then giggled.

Archibald left refreshed, with a smile on his usually dour face and a light heart.

~~

Archibald Craven was a man of his word: as promised, he returned to Lily’s garden the next afternoon. He brought with him a gift, a rose-bush dug up from the manor’s own garden. It had been chosen by the manor’s head gardener as one of the choicest specimens in all of north Yorkshire and sure to bloom true.

A thunderstorm the previous evening had broken the ghastly heat, so the weather this afternoon was cooler and far more agreeable than the previous day. As Archibald rode toward the valley, however, he was seized by the troubling thought that perhaps the cottage in the valley, the garden, and the girl from yesterday, were simply a heat-induced dream. She had set him so at his ease, a facility he had never had the chance to experience, that maybe he had only imagined it. Perhaps he had only stopped at the creek to water his horse and fallen asleep.

But this suspicion was settled when he crossed the valley floor and halfway up the other side to see the cottage with its wrought iron gate, and Lily floating about behind it, pulling weeds from a bed of lilies-of-the-valley. Today she wore a pink floral frock beneath her smock.

“My dear Miss Lily,” Archibald said from the gate.

“Mr. Craven!” Lily ran and opened the gate to allow him to ride in. “How lovely to see you again!”

Once he settled his horse beneath the willow, he presented her with his gift. Lily’s eyes widened when Archibald opened the basket to reveal the flowering bush, its roots wrapped in still-damp burlap. “Mr. Craven, where did you find this varietal? I’ve never seen it before.”

She sounded so full of wonder at its novelty that Archibald felt his breast swell with pride. “’Tis a gift from my manor garden to yours, lass,” he said, awed by her sheer pleasure. “I am told it will bloom the deepest crimson within weeks of planting.”

“Then I must plant it right away so we can see!”

She surveyed her beds of roses until she found the perfect spot, nestled between two smaller, established bushes. She called Ben over, who was pruning back a hedge, to dig the hole in the soil. Lily herself placed the bush into the receptacle and patted the soil around the roots to cover them. Archibald watched indulgently all the while.

“I cannot wait for it to flower,” she said excitedly. “I’ve only read about this variety in my gardening annual. The blossoms are supposed to be twice as large as a regular rose. I cannot thank you enough, dear sir, this is truly a wonderful gift.”

She wiped her cheek with a gloved finger, leaving a smudge of dirt behind, which only endeared her further to Archibald. It took all of his self-control not to reach out and wipe off the mark.

“When you were here yesterday it was far too beastly to show you around. Might I give you a tour of our humble garden today?”

“I would like that very much,” he said.

“Then come with me,” Lily said, looking around to find an appropriate place to start.

“Why not begin here with the roses?”

“Yes, let’s,” Lily said, and she immediately began to discourse on the several varieties of climbing trellis roses growing along the fences. Archibald happily lost himself in Lily’s descriptions of her beloved beds and rows and hanging baskets.

His visits to the Valley became an almost-daily occurrence, fair weather or foul. Archibald set off in the mornings from Misselthwaite before the dew dried on the grass. He returned to his house in the evenings as the sun began its journey below the western horizon. Under Lily’s tutelage, he became intimately acquainted with each flower and vine and leaf in her valley refuge, learned how to distinguish between flower and weed, the beneficial insects and how to deal with pests. All the while, old Ben Weatherstaff acted as their chaperone, keeping to a polite, though watchful distance.

Every day Archibald brought Lily gifts of fresh living things: giant bouquets of roses, lilies, poppies, or calendula chosen from the manor gardens; wild lavender and daisies from the valley; from the moors, heather and gorse. Some days he brought a picnic lunch from the manor kitchen for them to share along the creek just a short walk away from the gate. Other days, Lily set out tea on the table under the willow. On rainy days, Archibald also brought books from the manor library to read aloud while they sat in the cottage, each taking turns, captivated by the sound of the other’s voice.

As his acquaintance with Lily continued, with time a noticeable change came over Archibald Craven, as if he himself were a plant that had been dormant and was now beginning to bloom. In the sun, he lost his sallow complexion and dour mien; he began to smile often and laugh more in her life-giving presence. Soon this new _joie de vivre_ began to extend to the people he encountered in his own sphere; he became kinder to his own servants, more patient with his fellows. The fresh air and daily long horse riding sessions improved his sleep and his appetite immeasurably; and even his hunched back lost some prominence.

And as each day passed, Archibald found himself falling deeper and deeper under Lily's spell, until he could no longer deny the truth: he had fallen in love with Fair Lily of the Valley.

~~

Two weeks into their acquaintance, Lily introduced Archibald to her sister.

Aside from Ben, who turned out to be a distant cousin, Rose was Lily’s only remaining kin. Their parents had passed on a few years prior, and had left them the cottage and land. While Lily was a spirit of nature, Rose, the older of the two, spent her time indoors tending the cottage.

Outwardly, Rose was perhaps more beautiful than Lily, but she possessed none of the innate thoughtfulness or kindness which characterized the younger sister. Rather, Rose was a shallow and petty-minded woman who passed judgment all too quickly. Archibald learned this immediately on their first meeting; he took an instant dislike to her, and she to him. He did not encounter her frequently, for after their first meeting, Rose strictly avoided him, choosing to remain in the cottage whenever Archibald came to visit.

He saw how it pained Lily, that he and Rose could not get along. But she assured Archibald that it wasn’t his fault.

“That is how Rose always is,” Lily said.

In fact, Rose’s treatment of Archibald was more to what he was accustomed, but he did not tell her that. He tried his best to accept Rose, for Lily’s sake, but was always secretly relieved when she was not about.

~~

Three weeks into their most unusual friendship, on a dark and rainy day, the couple sat in the small cottage parlour. Rose had retired to her quarters; Archibald sat on an ottoman and was reading aloud from a book about King Arthur, while Ben snored lightly in a corner, and Lily worked small white flowers on a large square of whiter organdy stretched over a tambour hoop.

When Archibald paused for breath, Lily looked up from her embroidery, and a thoughtful frown crossed her face.

“I was wondering, Mr. Craven, if perhaps we are now acquainted enough to dispense with some formalities?”

Archibald raised an eyebrow. Lily had always been forward. “How do you mean, Miss Lily?” he asked carefully.

“For example, you can call me just Lily now. And I should like to use your Christian name too. ‘Mister Craven’ has rather a distant sound to it, don’t you think?”

Archibald set the book in his lap, his heart seized with a sort of dread. It was a reasonable request, but it also meant a greater intimacy than what he was accustomed to. Though he also wanted to hear how his name would sound falling from Lily’s lips.

“May I start calling you ‘Archibald’?

“No, you may not.”

The vehemence of his answer shocked both of them; Lily’s face reddened with deep embarrassment. “I’m – I’m sorry, Mr. Craven, I shouldn’t have been so forward --” she began, but stopped, her lower lip quivering. Her eyes glistened and Archibald realized he had hurt her enough to make her weep.

He stumbled over his words in the haste to make his amends, and he knelt in front of her. “My dearest Lily, I am sorry, the fault is mine,” he said. “I did not mean to sound so harsh. It’s just that – I’m not fond of my given name. I would prefer that you call me ‘Archie.’”

She nodded. “I prefer ‘Archie’ too.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“Yes, dear Archie.”

~~

For their part, the servants at Misselthwaite noticed his daily absence and his subsequent change in demeanour towards them. They began to gossip amongst themselves about what it might mean for the manor and for their own fortunes. Archibald was lord of the manor, albeit an absent one most of the time, and somewhat indifferent when he was present. As the oldest son, by custom, Archibald had inherited the manor and the vast swath of lands surrounding it upon his father’s death. Yet he had no use for either house or property. He was never expected to marry, much less produce an heir. Mrs. Medlock managed the household duties, his brother Neville the accounts.

Archibald’s mother at this point was still alive, though in failing health and currently bedridden. The chambermaids’ gossip reached even Mistress Craven, and she grew curious as to the change that was seemingly transforming her son for the better. One day, perhaps two fortnights after Archibald first stopped at Lily’s gate, the grand dame called Archibald to her bedside to confirm what she had heard.

Old Mistress Craven was not known for mincing words. Even in her weakened state, her voice carried the weight of authority. “Archie, I understand you have been spending your days outside Misselthwaite in the company of a young lady.”

Archibald, in full riding gear, was chafing at the bit to be on his way. Mrs. Medlock had caught up with him in the stable just before he mounted his horse to go to the valley and passed on Mistress Craven’s order. And indeed, in the background that good woman fussed around the drapes, ostensibly to straighten the bedchamber. 

Archibald could not ignore his mother’s wishes. He stood as straight as his twisted body would allow.

“Yes, Mother, I am.”

The old woman smiled at that. At last, she thought, a miracle for her hapless eldest son. “Are you courting this young lady?”

Archibald paused to mull over the words. He had never thought of his visits with Lily as courtship before. She was enchanting, certainly, a vivid conversationalist, extremely knowledgeable about botany and gardening. He could listen to her discourse for hours. He enjoyed her company, and in fact he vastly preferred it over anyone else’s. Moreover, he believed Lily enjoyed his presence.

But _courting_ her? The old woman’s eyes glittered as she waited for Archibald’s answer.

“Yes,” Archibald said at length, “I believe I can call it a courtship at this point.”

Mistress Craven’s smile widened even further in delight at the news. “And have you asked for her hand in marriage yet, my boy?”

Archibald drew a sharp breath. Of course he should have expected this question. “No, Mother, I have not, it’s only been but a few weeks since we met – ”

“But you do intend to ask?”

“I do, yes,” he replied. He blinked at the fervour and certainty in his voice. “I love her, Mother.” He blinked again at the realization that this was the first time he said the words aloud.

“Then I should like to meet this young lady, Archie,” Mistress Craven said. “I should like to give this angel my blessing.”

There was a wistful tone in the grand dame’s voice, such that Archibald realized the true urgency of the matter. He reached out and gently squeezed his mother’s frail hand. “I shall inform her today and arrange for her visit as soon as it is convenient,” he said.

Mistress Craven sighed and closed her eyes. “Very good. I look forward to it.”

~~

Archibald had wondered when to raise the difficult matter of his disfigurement with Lily and what it might possibly mean for their future.

Neville, a newly minted doctor of medicine, had divined Archibald’s growing affection for Lily even before the servants had begun to gossip about it. (Archibald was later to learn that Neville had gone so far as to follow him to the valley one day on one of his visits. Unbeknownst to either Archibald or Lily, Neville had observed them discreetly from the lane in front of the gate.) Neville had confronted him about it one evening after he returned from Lily’s garden, to advise him that, in his considered medical opinion, should he choose to pursue marriage with Lily or any other woman, his skeletal defect could be passed on to their children. 

If Archibald truly loved Lily, he should surely want to spare her that heartbreak, Neville had added rather pointedly. So it would be best for all concerned if Archibald broke off his relationship, and sooner rather than later.

Lily, for her part, did not seem to notice Archibald’s lopsided stance whatsoever, though his hunchback, and how it twisted his posture, was not subtle by any means. Perhaps Lily had noticed, and out of polite consideration of his feelings had simply chosen not to say a word.

However, Archibald needed to be certain of Lily’s feelings towards him, especially now that he understood the gravity of his mother’s condition. If his mother had requested to meet Lily and give her approval to their upcoming marriage today, there could be no delay in obeying.

The long ride from Misselthwaite provided him ample time to muse about the turnaround in his fortunes. Men like him were not meant to find happiness in a woman’s love, much less marry and sire a family. Indeed, before his fateful decision to stop and rest his mare, he had resigned himself to a solitary and loveless existence. He had not even expected to inherit Misselthwaite after his father’s death. He had fully expected it to pass to Neville, who was by all accounts healthy and vigorous, and indeed had every chance to marry and live a normal life. When the barrister had read aloud his father’s will, Archibald could only think of how his father had got his inheritance backwards.

His trip to York in June, the trip during which he first met Lily, had been to arrange extended passage yet again to the Continent. But Lily’s presence in his life had upended everything, had opened new possibilities for him. Now that Mistress Craven knew, and that Archibald had declared his intentions to her, with her blessing Archibald was all but assured of a bright and shining future with Lily.

He knew he could provide for Lily quite comfortably. She would never want for anything, and he would never be alone again.

But did Lily want him, Archibald Craven, as a husband? As a father to her children? Not to mention when she learned about what his hump might mean for their future progeny? In truth, he knew Lily could marry any man she wanted. She could have Neville if she desired. Archibald would not blame her if she rejected him and married his brother instead.

All of this musing soured his outlook, so despite the brilliant high summer day, a cloud of outright gloom descended and enveloped him. But he had to know.

When he finally reached the valley, Lily was already stood waiting by the gate. She noticed his vexation right away; her welcoming smile faded from her lips, to be replaced by a grimace of concern.

“Dearest Archie, what’s wrong?” she asked, after he’d dismounted and hitched his mare in the shade of the willow. “What’s happened?”

Such a frown tore at his heart. He sighed heavily, not certain how to phrase the matter. He was terrified that if he voiced his doubts aloud, Lily would turn away from him once and for all. And he would not blame her if she did.

“How can you stand me?” he said at last. It was a blunt statement, perhaps, but it would suffice.

Lily flinched at the harshness in his tone. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“How do you bear to look at me? Surely you must see?”

Her lovely arched eyebrows furrowed in her puzzlement. “See what?”

A fevered ball of frustration and fear welled behind Archibald’s breastbone. Perhaps Lily was being purposely dense, he thought unkindly. “My back!” he shouted. “Surely you must notice my hunchback, Lily! How can you fail to see what’s so obvious? How can you bear to see it, see me, and not be disgusted by it? How can you not turn away from it?”

Understanding dawned on her features, and wordlessly, Lily took Archibald’s arm. She steered him away from the garden, out the gate, towards a small, winding creek at the very bottom of the valley. Archibald could not see her face in profile, obscured by a fall of hair over her ear, but her head was bowed as if in deep thought.

They stopped at the creek bed, where she turned to face him, clasped his hands in hers and pressed them to her heart. “Oh, my love,” she said at last, “if only I could take this pain away from you and bear it myself.”

Despite his misery, Archibald’s heart fluttered in his chest at the endearment.

“Of course I see your hunchback. I noticed the first day we met,” she continued gently. “And it doesn’t matter to me. It never has.”

“It is part of me,” he said heavily. “I will never be rid of it as long as I live.”

She dropped his hands. “You are not your hunchback, Archie. Your hunchback is not you. It’s part of you, but it’s not you.”

“You are the only soul in this world who seems to believe that is the case,” Archibald said, unable to suppress the bitterness in his voice. He looked away, not wanting her to see the distress on his face, or the sudden and suspicious wetness that began to well in his eyes. “No one else deigns to look beyond it.”

It was Lily’s turn to sigh. “People will only see what they wish to see,” she said. “The fault is theirs, not yours, for not looking beyond the surface to the man beneath. They do not know you as I do. You have been nothing but kind and good to me. That is who you are, a decent and honourable man.”

“I have seen the worst ugliness be wrapped in the most appealing of packages,” she added, a shadow of sadness and regret falling across her face. “That is how I know the difference.”

There was something in her voice that made Archibald suspect she meant her sister. Rose’s reaction on meeting him had been more of what he’d become accustomed to in his life: initial strained politeness underscored by poorly-hidden dislike and subsequent haste to escape at the earliest opportunity.

“Oh, Archie,” Lily said, “why can you not believe that of everyone alive in this world, I would always choose you?”

Archibald sank to his knees and gazed up into her dear face. “My darling Lily,” he said fervently, “I do not, nor ever have I deserved you. You have no idea how I thank God above every day for you.”

They both fell silent for a moment. “I have a question to ask of you now,” he said, “but before you answer, I implore you to consider it with due care.”

Lily’s eyelashes fluttered, and a pale blush blossomed on her cheeks. “What is it?” she asked, a little breathless with anticipation; almost as if she knew perfectly well what the question might be.

“My dearest Lily,” he said, and took her hand. His voice trembled only slightly. “Wouldst thou giveth me thy hand in marriage?”

Those beloved pink lips curved in the widest, sweetest smile she had ever bestowed upon him. “Yes, Archie. A thousand times yes. I will marry you.”

Yet exhilaration warred with great anxiety within him. She had accepted his proposal too quickly, he thought. Perhaps she had not thought this through well enough. “My love, have you given it all due consideration – ?”

To his surprise, Lily knelt beside him. “I have considered this very question from the first day we met, Archie. Every day since, I have found less and less reason to say no, and more and more reason to say yes.” She lay a slim hand over the hump on his back, and Archibald stiffened.

“Lily, you must know, I’ve been told that I can pass it on to our children – ”

“That doesn’t mean it will happen. If it does, we will deal with it together. Until then we shan’t worry. As I’ve already said, I couldn’t care less about the hump on your back. It’s the goodness in your heart that counts, and that you’ve more than demonstrated to me.”

“My love,” Archibald said, and turned to embrace her.

“My mother wishes to meet you,” Archibald said after some minutes had passed. “She requests that you come to Misselthwaite as soon as you can. I must warn you, she is gravely ill. I fear she does not have much time left.”

“Then I shall not delay my duty. I will come tomorrow, dear heart,” Lily said.

~~

Lily arrived at Misselthwaite Manor by carriage just after noon the following day. She drove herself, accompanied by her sister Rose, who was more than content to remain in the company of Mrs Medlock in the drawing room while Archibald escorted Lily upstairs to Mistress Craven’s bedchamber.

The grand dame lay propped on pillows, her breath laboured, her skin deathly pale, but her eyes keen. “Mother, may I introduce you to my betrothed,” Archibald said. “This is Miss Lily – ”

“How do you do, Mistress Craven?” Lily said, with a slight curtsy.

“So you are the angel who will make an honest man of my boy?” Mistress Craven whispered.

“I am the woman whom your son wishes to marry, ma’am.”

“Then come, my dear,” Mistress Craven rasped, “let me take your hands and we will talk.”

Lily perched herself on the edge of her bed, where the old woman clasped both her wrists in her gnarled grip. “Archie, I should like to talk with Miss Lily alone.”

“Of course, Mother.” Archibald nodded curtly; and, thus dismissed, he left her bedside. Her nurse escorted him to the door, then to the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

He had no desire to return downstairs where he would be forced to endure the presence of Rose, so he paced outside the door to his mother’s room. He could not hear any clear words, only the rising and falling cadence of their voices. He became increasingly agitated as the minutes ticked by on his pocket watch. Surely it would not take his mother so long to arrive at a decision about Lily, even in her weakened state?

His wait felt like an eternity of torment, but in reality only perhaps fifteen minutes had elapsed when Mistress Craven’s nurse opened the door and beckoned to Archibald to enter again. He did so, and stood behind Lily who had leaned over and was soothing his mother’s brow with a soft, gentle motion. Lily drew back, folding her hands together, and Archibald dropped his hands to her shoulders. His mother’s eyes had drifted closed, but soon opened them to address Archibald and Lily. Despite her frailty, the grand dame’s eyes remained clear and focused.

“My dear boy, as you know, I never believed you would find a wife,” she said without preamble, “so I did not know what to expect when you told me about Miss Lily. But now I’ve met her, I must say: you are indeed the most fortunate man alive to have this magnificent angel in your life.”

“I know, Mother,” Archibald answered. “Not a day goes by that I don’t tell myself that.”

“I would be proud to have Lily as my daughter. Hence I give you both my blessing. Lily, Archie: Marry, and be content. Love one another, care for each other, today, tomorrow and the rest of your days.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Archibald said.

“We shall live a long and happy life together,” Lily added.

Mistress Craven nodded. “As it should be. Now forgive me, I am very tired and should like to sleep a little while. Please know I am very glad that I had the chance to meet you, Lily.”

“As am I,” she said. At that, the nurse approached the bed, and hustled them out the door.

In the hallway, Archibald sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “I suppose that is that,” he said. “I fear she won’t last the week.”

Lily went to him and embraced him, pulling his head to her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Archie,” Lily said. “But we have your mother’s blessing to go ahead with the wedding.”

“Yes,” he agreed, then drew back and gazed down at her. “It’s just a question of when, isn’t it.”

They went downstairs, and walked arm-in-arm towards the manor gardens. “If we begin the banns this Sunday, we can be married by the end of the month,” Archibald said.

“If your mother were to pass on, we must observe a mourning period for her first,” Lily said. “But after that, there’s no reason to delay the wedding once all the banns are read.”

“Perhaps we should elope, then?”

Lily glanced at him, her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I should hope not. Although, with time of the essence given your mother’s illness, we could go to the vicar and arrange for a licence instead of the banns.”

Archibald stopped and stared at her. “That’s a brilliant idea, darling.” His face softened. “But that would afford us even less time for preparations than the banns. Did you have your heart set on a large wedding?”

Lily shook her head. “I neither want nor require anything elaborate. Thee, and me, the vicar, your brother, my sister, and the miracle of your mother’s presence, if God may grant it. That is all I need to celebrate our love.”

“Then we shall call upon the vicar tomorrow, and see what can be done.”

~~

As it conspired, meeting Lily had worked wonders for the grand dame. Assured that Lily and Archie were indeed going to wed, Mistress Craven rallied her strength. Her health improved drastically, seemingly overnight. Within a few days she managed a chair in the main drawing room to oversee the preparations. She was determined to witness her eldest son’s wedding.

The news from the manor rapidly spread to the village and immediately became the overwhelming topic of conversation. The hunchback of Misselthwaite Manor was about to wed a lady from the valley who, by all accounts of the servants who had met her, was a blessed saint.

Well, any woman who chose to marry Archibald Craven would need to be a saint, went the prevailing local wisdom. That, or utterly foolish. If not completely blind.

Not only that, but Lady Lily of the Valley, as she came to be known at the manor, had also brought the old Mistress back from her deathbed, seemingly with just a stroke of the grand dame’s brow. Now isn’t that a miracle if ever I saw? This, from the nurse who had stood witness to the feat.

The vicar, in respect of Mistress Craven’s still-precarious health (or perhaps in awe of Lady Lily’s effect on same), readily agreed to grant the happy couple a licence to marry in place of the banns. Archibald and Lily hence decided to hold their wedding a week from Saturday, an outdoor ceremony in the grand front garden to stand in for the bride’s house.

Even though it was to be a small affair, there was much to be accomplished in those nine days before the ceremony: the manor underwent a flurry of cooking and cleaning, airing of rooms and pruning of gardens. Lily’s own home in the valley needed to be packed up and prepared for sale, her belongings moved to the manor; Archibald sent a coterie of servants to attend to the cottage. Ben was hired on to the house staff as Lily’s personal gardener.

A cloud of sadness, however, came to mar the upcoming nuptials. Rose was incensed by Lily’s insistence on marrying Archibald against her advice. She utterly refused to attend; and, not only that, but she also cut all her familial ties with her sister, going so far as to vacate the cottage altogether rather than spend one more minute in her sister’s presence. This, Archibald learned, occurred the very night after Lily had met the Mistress Craven, when the sisters returned to their valley cottage.

Upon hearing of their quarrel and its unfortunate outcome, Archibald felt deeply distressed on Lily’s behalf. Lily had no other family of her own other than Rose and Ben. Although a part of him, the part wounded by too many unkind remarks in his life about his plight, could not begin to express his relief about it, either. There had never been any love lost between himself and Lily’s sister; Rose’s departure from her life, while tragic for Lily, was like a lightning bolt of good fortune for Archibald. He resolved to keep his unkind thoughts to himself, for he couldn’t bear to see her hurt any more over the matter.

Though fortunately for Lily, Mistress Craven’s improving health meant that Lily would not lack for a confidante or chaperone in the days leading up to the ceremony. Lily and the old Mistress spent much time together, heads bowed conspiratorially. Archibald dared not ask what they discussed, though he was sure Lily would tell him if he asked. He was simply grateful his mother had rallied enough to be able to instruct Lily in her wifely duties.

As the days counted down, however, Archibald began to feel a growing knot of tension in his breast. He felt woefully unprepared for what was to come after the ceremony. He had a grasp of a husband’s responsibilities in marriage, of course, but not one sufficient to allay his uncertainties. Oh, he was not inexperienced, far from it; over the years he had indulged in a few discreet liaisons which had instructed him on the physical aspects of his ardour. But he was flummoxed on how to translate them to the marriage bed, especially with his disfigurement. And Neville, with all his medical knowledge, was strangely reticent at advising him on the matter.

The wedding day dawned grey and rainy and cold, most unusual for late July. Archibald felt a keen pang of disappointment upon waking and staring out his bedroom window across the silver-dappled grounds. They had intended on holding their ceremony in the main garden out front of the house, under the sun and fresh air which suited Lily best. Instead they must wed indoors in the drawing room, in deference to Mistress Craven’s still-delicate condition.

Lily, however, refused to be disappointed or defeated. She donned her customary gardening smock, bonnet, thick boots and gloves. Then, with a small army of chambermaids, she marched into the rain. They gathered armfuls of fragrant blossoms from the main garden, brought them indoors, shook off the excess moisture, and arranged them to recreate a veritable indoor garden in the drawing room.

“If we cannot wed in the garden, we shall bring the garden to us,” she said stoutly.

And when she was finished, the drawing room was all but transformed. She then rushed upstairs to change from her work clothes into her wedding gown, an hour before the ceremony, just as the vicar, bald and portly, arrived with the mousy parish clerk to set up the wedding altar.

In the meantime, while Lily prepared for the ceremony, assisted by Mrs. Medlock, Mistress Craven called Archibald to her chamber. She sat regally in a high-back chair in the corner of her room by the fireplace, already dressed in a high-necked gown of deepest blue.

“Come here, Archie,” she said, and held out her hands to him.

Archibald strode to her chair and knelt in front of her. She squeezed his hands briefly, then let go, to slip her wedding band off her finger and set it in his palm.

“This was my mother’s ring,” she said, closing Archibald’s fingers around the jewelry in his fist. “I have no more need of it as your father is no longer on this earth, God rest his soul. I’d hoped I would have a daughter to whom I could pass it on, but God rather saw fit to grant me two sons. So I should like for Lily to wear it.”

Archibald opened his fist to examine the ring. It was, on first glance, a plain gold band, rather unremarkable; on closer inspection, a delicate engraving of two intertwined vines encircled it. On the inside was engraved the initials A.C. and L.V., and the current year. “It is beautiful, Mother,” he murmured past a lump in his gorge. “I don’t know what to say.”

The grand dame laid her hand against Archibald’s cheek and patted it. “My dear, knowing I have lived to see this day is thanks enough.” She raised her head. “Now you shall help me downstairs, Archie, and we will see this day through.”

~~

The ceremony began promptly at three o’clock.

Archibald had installed Mistress Craven in a wing chair in the drawing room, away from the door and the draft from the foyer. She sat behind and to the right of the vicar. The parish clerk from the village sat beside her, the registry book balanced on his narrow lap. The sweet, heady fragrance of roses and lilies and lavender suffused the house, mingling together to create one unique scent that Archibald would forever remember.

At the altar, Archibald stood beside Neville, his best man, waiting for the bride. As Rose was no longer willing to attend Lily, and no one else in the household was of a sufficient station, Mrs. Medlock stood in her place. Lily had requested that on this day, the servants of Misselthwaite be allowed to stand witness too, a reward for their hard work. It was a highly unusual request, but by now, because of her spirit and kindness no one could refuse her anything. They stood in two columns: gardeners, chambermaids, scullery and kitchen maids, the cook and her helpers, still in their uniforms, each wearing a flower cut from the garden, pinned onto their bosom.

A rustle at the threshold caught everyone’s attention. The assemblage turned as one towards the door, and Archibald’s breath caught in his throat. From that moment on, he had eyes and ears only for his bride. Lily stood at the entrance to the drawing room, resplendent in a simple gown of purest white organdy tamboured with tiny white flowers. She held a dainty bouquet of her namesake blossom clutched tight. Her lovely face was hidden by a white lace veil held in place by a coronet of orange blossoms.

Archibald barely heard the vicar’s opening remarks, the psalms, or the sermon, so entranced he was by the spectre of Lily at his side. When it came time to utter the vows, his continuing distraction was such that Neville had to murmur them in his ear to remind him. And when it was time for the vicar to bless the ring, Archibald dropped it before he could slide it over his beloved’s finger. The ring merrily rolled behind him, to stop in front of Ben Weatherstaff, who stood at the front on Lily’s side of the room.

Archibald flushed, embarrassed at the mishap, but Ben simply handed the ring back to him with a wide, near-toothless grin. “Aye, that’s great good luck now ye’ve shook the evil spirits out,” he said amiably. Lily giggled, and her laughter set Archibald at ease again until the final blessing of their marriage.

“May I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Craven,” the vicar announced to conclude the ceremony. Gazing lovingly into his new wife’s glowing eyes, Archibald sighed with relief and a happiness he had never known before. They were married!

But there was still the night to come.

And with that thought, all exhilaration vanished, and his trepidation returned in full force.

~~

Archibald stood in profile at the window of the master bedroom of the manor, facing out over the front grounds. The rain, which had poured all day, had ended just after the sun set. Now, as evening began to fall in earnest, the thick dark clouds had begun to part; the waxing gibbous moon shone through their remaining gauze, and even a few stars dared to peep out from the heavens.

Behind him, on the other side of the room, stood the graceful, canopied marriage bed, the edge upon which Lily Craven, his dear wife – his wife! – perched, hands folded, waiting for him to join her. She wore a soft, voluminous, white bridal nightgown. Her chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, secured at the nape of her neck with a blue silk ribbon.

He had made no motion to shed his clothes or approach the bed. He was still fully dressed in his wedding regalia: pinstripe trousers, white shirt, blue waistcoat with matching cravat, and top coat. This night – their wedding night – Archibald had dreamed of, and dreaded, in equal measure, since he had declared his intentions of marriage to Lily a scant fortnight prior.

Dreamed of, because he had never expected it to happen in his lifetime, yet here it was at last. Dreaded, because –

“Come, my dear husband,” she entreated him, and she held out her hands.

But rather than going to her, he remained at the window, caught in the moon’s beam. His left hand reached out to touch the heavy drape, and he crushed the brown velvet brocade between his fingers. His greatest fear, that he had carried within his heart from the day they first met, was that this was nothing but a dream. Any moment he half-expected to wake up cold and alone, in the narrow bed in his chamber on the other side of the manor. Even now, as he gazed upon Lily in her nightgown, he thought she was so good and so kind to him, as no one ever had, surely she must be but a figment of his lonely imagination. Surely when he woke up she would slip through his fingers and disappear like the will o’ the wisp. Surely –

“What’s wrong, darling?”

He startled at the voice beside him. During his reverie, Lily had risen from the bed and floated silently to his side. Now she laid her gentle, slender hand along his forearm. Archibald stared down at her oval fingernails with their fine white cuticles, at the gold wedding band with its entwined vines encircling her finger.

Archibald bowed his head to avoid that soft, forthright gaze. Words failed him; how could he explain his reluctance to become one with her? In his mind, he fully knew Lily accepted his deformity, accepted him with all his flaws, loved and cherished him with all her heart.

But his heart whispered something else: an insidious, niggling doubt that cast its shadow over what should this evening’s utmost joy, and one that never seemed to disappear, despite Lily’s assurances otherwise.

“Oh, Archie, after all this time you still can’t believe you are worthy of my love, can you?”

The disappointment in her voice tore at Archibald’s very soul. Perhaps if he tried to articulate this feeling, she could understand? But how, when he didn’t have the words to understand himself?

“Lily,” he said at last, “I believe it’s best we don’t --”

“Sshh, dear heart.” She removed her hand from his arm, then moved to embrace him from behind.

Archibald’s entire body grew rigid at her touch. Oh, how he longed for her certainty of her belief in him, to take it upon himself and make it his own, too. How he wished he had the confidence to turn in her arms, to crush her to his breast, to kiss those willing red lips and rosy cheeks and fluttering eyelids. But oh, how he was afraid, how at at the bottom of his heart his hunchback had made him become an ogre in the eyes of society. And when Lily saw him for who he really was, beneath the armour of his clothes, how he dreaded he might turn Lily against him too.

Lily pressed her cheek to the very source of his heartache. “You are the dearest and most important man in the world to me, Archie Craven,” she murmured. “For better or for worse, you are my husband, and I am your wife. And if you cannot believe yourself worthy of all my love, I shall make you believe.”

She began to rock back and forth ever so slightly, and he with her, a slow, hypnotic sway. “Now I want you to close your eyes, Archie, and you are not to open them, no matter what. Can you do that for me?”

He could not trust himself to speak, for fear of driving her away, so he nodded. After a minute, she ceased her rocking, and released him from her arms. He shivered at the loss of her warmth at his back, but she had not abandoned him; she had only moved around to his front. Archibald licked his lips.

“My darling, what are you –?”

“Sshh,” she said again. He felt nimble fingers flutter at his neck, then slide down toward his middle, with a slight tug on the fabric every few inches. She was unbuttoning his coat, he thought. She pulled it off, let it drop to the floor, and began to unbutton his waistcoat. When she finished with that, she pulled his braces off his shoulders, tugged the shirt tails out from his trousers, and started on his shirt with sure, methodical movements.

Archibald grew more tense with each discarded layer. He wore nothing beneath his shirt; when that was gone, she would discover the monster that he truly was. “Lily, please, I beg of you, stop,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I cannot bear for you to see me like this –”

“It’s all right, Archie,” Lily soothed, and slid the fine silk fabric off his shoulders.

Fully revealed to Lily now, Archibald began to tremble as if with cold. He fought the urge to open his eyes against Lily’s orders. He was desperate to know, but too afraid of what he might see in Lily’s.

“Oh,” Lily whispered. “ _Archie._ ”

But her exclamation wasn’t one of disgust, or of distress; it was one of wonder, or perhaps of reverence. He felt Lily at his back again, her hands firm on his hips, her breath warm and moist against his skin. Archibald drew one ragged breath, then another.

Then, to his shock, he felt her soft lips press gently against his hump.

It was a Herculean task to cease his violent shivers. She continued to kiss his entire back, his spine from the nape of his neck to the waist of his trousers and back, focusing special attention to the curve in the middle. Archibald drew upon all his control to keep still for her sake. And as she worked her way down, Lily’s kiss was like a balm, not just on his body but on his soul, soothing all his doubt.

When she finished, she embraced him again from behind. Archibald, finally overcome by his curiosity, turned in his arms to face her, and opened his eyes to find hers shining.

“Do you believe me now, dear husband?” she asked.

Words failing him in the moment, all Archibald could do was draw a ragged breath. He then tipped Lily’s chin up, leaned down, and pressed his lips to hers in a slow, soft kiss.

Lily sighed into his mouth and returned the favour, slipping her fingers up to twine them in his hair. They stood in the moonlight thus for what seemed an eternity, trading sweet, gentle kisses and caresses, until Lily shifted in his arms just _so_ , and Archibald crushed her to his bosom.

Lily’s sighs rose to outright moans, and she pressed the soft swells of her breasts and belly even closer against him. This aroused his ardour, and his kisses grew deeper, more insistent, until he decided it was time there should no longer be any barrier between them.

“Lily,” he murmured against the shell of her ear, but faltered again, though not from fear but from the strength of his need for her.

She seemed to intuit exactly what he wanted; she stepped back from him, and crossed her arms to lift her nightgown over her head. She took it off in one smooth motion and dropped it to the floor, revealing that she wore nothing beneath.

Lily stood limned in moonlight silver, her bosom heaving, her cheeks pink. It was her turn to tremble as Archibald gazed lovingly at her: from her beloved face to the curve of her collarbone, down to the rise of her breasts and the valley between; he followed the line down to the dip of her navel and the flare of her hip, to end at the mound of Venus nestled at the top of her legs.

“My God,” Archibald said in utter awe, when his gaze returned to her face. At that, Lily smiled and grasped his hand.

Together they led each other to the bed, where he laid Lily down upon it. Smiling down at her, he unfastened his trousers, pushed them down to his ankles and stepped out of them, allowing her to see how much he desired her.

Lily quite unconsciously arched up, and opened her thighs in invitation to nestle between. He climbed onto the bed beside her, to caress her where his gaze had previously travelled, his mouth devouring hers in the meanwhile. She reached for him, too, tracing patterns across his arms and chest and back, down his belly and sides, until she reached for his manhood, felt it pulse in her fingers.

Archibald gasped with the shock of being touched there. “Lily – I --” he choked.

She guided him deftly to her entrance. “Now, my love,” she begged.

He nodded, swallowed and slowly, carefully began to push his way inside.

Lily, beneath him, tensed when he was halfway in; her eyes tightened in what appeared to be a spasm of pain, and he paused. “Am I hurting you, darling?” he asked, dismayed.

She shook her head. “This is expected,” she said. “It’s all right, it will pass in moments.”

This, he thought, would not do. “If it hurts, love, say the word--”

“No.” At that, Lily took his hand and pressed it against her mound, dipped his fingers down. “Just do this,” she said, moving his fingers in a small circle.

He did so, and slowly Lily began to relax to the point that he could slide the rest of the way in to that soft, slick womanhood. She tipped her head back to expose the lovely curve of her throat.

Archibald had never, ever imagined there could be this kind of pleasure in his life, and he moaned as he began to thrust, carefully at first. Lily clung to him and tightened rhythmically round him with growing breathless o’s. And together they moved, harder and faster, until each stilled in turn and cried out in ecstasy.

As quickly as it started, it seemed, it was over. Archibald rolled off onto his side and pulled her close in the circle of his arms. “Lily, oh Lily,” he whispered, and kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips.

“So now we are properly married,” Lily said.

“Yes, I suppose we are,” Archibald agreed, “for better and for worse.”

“Always for better,” Lily said, burrowing into his crook of his shoulder.

Archibald nodded. “Always,” he said, secure at last in the knowledge of Lily’s unceasing love for him. “For as long as we both shall live.”


End file.
